


Ash cloud over Europe

by solrosan



Series: Short Message Service [4]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airport bar, Drinks, F/M, Friendship, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stranded at Frankfurt Airport (due to volcano-related issues), Mycroft Holmes’ PA encounters MJN Air’s Captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zedille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zedille/gifts).



> This fic is a one shot, but some things trace back to the Short Message Service series.
> 
> I wrote this as a gift to my loyal beta so she would start listening to Cabin Pressure. Two days before I finished it she told me she had already started. Mission completed?
> 
> I was rude enough to ask her to beta her own gift, and she’ll kill me when she sees what I did after she gave it back to me. In other words, all remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

There were a lot of things you could say about Iceland, but one thing was clear: when the island was in a bad mood, all of Europe came to a screeching halt. Ash and smoke and suddenly Europe, or at least the transportation systems, was back in the 19th century. 

“Take the train from Frankfurt,” Mr Holmes had said when she called the office. “Just take the train to Paris or Brussels, then take Eurostar so you’ll be back tomorrow.”

Take the train. Ha! She’d like to see _him_ take the train (or trains, to be accurate) from Frankfurt to London. No, she was going to stay in Frankfurt. Surely her time was better spent infiltrating Eurozone meetings and keeping an eye on the Greeks and the Germans and, of course, the French than jumping trains to get home in time for _Snog Marry Avoid_?

Yes, she watched _Snog Marry Avoid_ , and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Well, not _that_ ashamed, anyway.

“Gin Tonic, bitte,” she said, making eye contact with the bartender in the airport lounge. He smiled and said something incomprehensible; she flashed a smile and pretended to understand as well as she wished she did. She should really brush up on her German. Or stop pretending she spoke the language at all.

“Danke,” she said, signing the receipt for the outrageous 12 euros the drink cost. How could the prices at airport bars not be at the top of the EU Parliamentary agenda? At least the drink was strong. 

She retrieved her phone from her handbag and sent a quick text.

_Bored._

_My deepest  
sympathies. Have  
you managed to  
get drunk on  
tax money yet?  
SH_

_I’m working on it._

_Should I ask  
John to record  
Snog Marry Avoid  
for you?  
SH_

The drink almost came out her nose as she tried not to giggle. It simply wasn’t appropriate to giggle at text messages in public after the age of fifteen. 

_BBC iPlayer is  
my friend. But  
I appreciate  
the thought._

_Remember that  
the next time  
I’m bored.  
SH_

_Yes, I’ll link you  
Snog Marry Avoid  
then._

_Amusing.  
SH_

_Always._

_Stay away from  
the pitchers,  
would you?  
SH_

She rolled her eyes. Her boss’s brother was one of the best perks of her job. Sherlock Holmes was like coffee on a roller-coaster – energising, amusing and terrifying. 

Still typing up her answer ( _Only in Japan. A pitcher here would plunge Britain into debt of Greek proportions._ ) she reached for her drink and missed by a couple of millimetres. That was just enough to knock it over completely, spilling the drink on the poor man standing next to her trying to get the bartender’s attention.

She blinked and started. He looked like Sherlock Holmes! The resemblance, even with the red hair and the freckles, was disturbing. That couldn’t be right. How strong was that drink?

“Entschuldigung,” she said and, ignoring her insane thoughts, she picked up the glass, looking for some napkins to give him. She registered that he was British by his use of profanities, and couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock would even consider that a deduction. 

“I’m so sorry, sir.” She handed him some of the napkins she had found and started to wipe up the few drops that had ended up on the bar top. 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stuttered, and blushing as if he had been the one spilling a drink all over her. “It’s just…this damn volcano. We weren’t supposed to stay here. And…and this was my only change of clothes. And it’s just…it’s….”

“I apologise,” she said, though she didn’t think it would do much difference.

“No, it’s okay…just fine. Bloody _brilliant_ ,” the man muttered, more to himself than to her, as he tried to pat his uniform dry. “This is just…just typical.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” she offered. 

“Thank you, no, you don’t have to.”

She ignored him and caught the bartender’s eyes, even though the bar was crowded with irritated, volcano-grounded passengers. Dark eyelashes and a mysterious smile had their advantages: just ask Mona Lisa. With a flick of two fingers she ordered each of them a new drink.

Her phone vibrated on the bartop. She glanced at the screen. “A Friend,” it said. She opened the message as two glasses were placed in front of them.

_Try not to cause  
an international  
scandal.  
SH_

“Rough day?” she asked.

_If the papers didn’t  
pick up on the 2009 Nobel  
Dinner, I can get away  
with anything._

“More like…rough life….” the man muttered, placing the soggy napkin on the bar. She finally took the time to actually look at him; the resemblance to Sherlock seemed to have disappeared at some point during the stuttering. Perhaps she had just imagined it in the first place. Pity. 

_Pride goes before  
destruction.  
SH_

“It’s not your fault, I’m an accident magnet.”

“Are you sure you’ve chosen the right profession, then?” she asked, eying his pilot’s uniform with an amused, half-mocking smile.

“I- it’s not- I’ve never…. I mean it’s not like….” 

“Take a breath, Captain,” she said, nodding in the direction of the glasses, “Drink something. Not like you’re going to fly anywhere tonight anyway.”

“Yes. Yes…. I…. Thank you.”

The man looked (and sounded) more confident and visibly straightened up when she addressed him as Captain. She smiled and turned back to her phone. 

_Your quoting the  
Bible is scary._

_Would a different  
religious work  
suit you better?  
SH_

“So, um, why are you …. I mean, where are you, were you, I- I mean if-“

“London,” she answered, still texting. Better to put him out of the misery of having to complete a sentence than force him to stutter his way through she figured.

_You and religion  
don't mix well._

“Going home to a, a boyfriend?”

“No.” She met his eyes with a smirk, making him blush again. It was adorable how he did that. She wondered if Sherlock ever blushed.

“Oh, oh I see, I um, I’m not going home to a boyfriend either. Not that I’d want to, go home to a boyfriend. I’m a man. Not that wanting to go home to a boyfriend if you are a man is wrong or, or, I mean, because it’s not. It’s fine. I just don’t. Want to. I like women. I…. Oh, God….”

He turned away from her, looking like he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear. She supressed a giggle and ignored her phone’s new text.

“Breathe,” she encouraged, and wondered if he’d get a stroke if she touched his hand. That would be cruel. Or incredibly funny.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and emptied half of his drink.

“Stop apologising.”

“Sorry…sorry.”

“Should we start again?” she suggested, offering her hand. “My name’s…Anthea.”

“My name’s Captain, no, that’s not my name…. I am the Captain, a Captain, my name is Martin. Crieff.” He kept her hand in his. He was trying not to look at her cleavage, which was obviously distracting him tremendously. Good, that was what it was there for.

“Nice to meet you, Captain Crieff,” she smiled, wiggling her hand free from his. 

“Oh, God, sorry.” 

She smiled and shook her head as she glanced at her phone. Upon seeing she had four texts from Sherlock, an idea popped into her head.

“May I take a picture of your thumb?”

“My what? Why?” Martin – no, she decided to call him Captain Crieff, it seemed to do such good things to his posture – looked startled.

“Your thumb. The left one,” she said, opening the camera on her phone.

“Why?”

“I work for the government,” she said, reaching for his wrist. She took the picture before he could ask about the logic in that, and sent the picture before he had recovered from her touch.

“What? Which government? What do you want with my thumb?”

_Airline pilot.  
Go for it.  
SH_

She smiled at the message and turned her attention back to Captain Crieff. “Our government.”

“The, the British government?”

“Her Majesty’s Government, yes. That’s why I’m here. Euro crisis, lots of fun.” 

“Why would the government care about my thumb?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was a matter of national security?” 

“National…? What? No.”

“I have a friend who claims he can identify a pilot by his left thumb,” she finally admitted. The explanation did not seem to put him at ease. 

“You sent a picture of my thumb to your friend?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Unfortunately he’s as good as he thinks he is.”

“He could tell I was a pilot just by looking at a picture of my thumb?” Captain Crieff looked stunned. “Most people can’t even tell when they meet me. I mean, you could, that I was a captain even, but people mostly just…they-”

_Drunk yet?  
SH_

“People are idiots,” she interrupted, before he rambled himself into a corner again. He blushed and looked down at his wet uniform. 

“Yes, yes they are,” he muttered.

_Shut up, Sherlock.  
I’m very busy._

“We should get you out of that uniform, Captain Crieff,” she said. 

“Um…. I…. um…don’t have any…. It’s….”

“I know,” she said, “You didn’t bring a change of clothes because you didn’t plan on getting stuck here.”

“Yes, exactly, so, I can’t get out of…ehm…” – she looked up and gave him a telling glare – “Oh. OH! I-I-I…. Yes! I mean, yes. We should- it’s a….yes.”

_Use a condom.  
SH_

She dropped the phone into her handbag with a smile and stood, deliberately leaning too close to him. She could hear how his breath got stuck in his throat. 

“Well, eh, yes um….where shall we, um, go?”

“Oh, I know places,” she said, and she led him out of the bar.

Half an hour later, Captain Crieff’s uniform shared a pile with a black skirt suit on the floor of a hotel room that Mycroft Holmes would reluctantly have to pay for.


	2. Tell me more, tell me more!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea is more generous with the details than desired while Captain Crieff tries to not kiss and tell (even though he wants to).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect you all to hum this while reading:
> 
>  
> 
> _Well-a well-a well-a, huh  
>  Tell me more, tell me more  
> Did you get very far?  
> Tell me more, tell me more  
> Like does he have a...um...plane?_

* * *

_Did you have  
fun last night?  
SH_

He passed the time.

_I’m sure he’d  
be delighted by  
that evaluation.  
SH_

Oh, hush. He was  
sweet. Almost  
knew what he was  
doing. 

_I don’t need details.  
SH_

Good, because  
you're not getting  
any.

_Hm. Interesting.  
SH_

What’s interesting?

_You’re always  
eager to share the  
details of everyone  
else’s sex life.  
SH_

Don’t tell anyone,  
but I make up most  
of those details.

_You don’t say?  
SH_

Shocking, isn’t it?

_Outrageous!  
SH_

Don’t worry, I’m  
getting punished  
as we text.

_That’s good to  
hear. How?  
SH_

I’m on a crowded  
train headed for  
Paris. Your brother  
is not entirely pleased  
I stayed the night.

_Because of you staying,  
or your activities?  
SH_

My not being in  
London this morning.  
He’s not briefed  
about how I decided  
to spend my time.

_I commend your  
decision to keep  
Mycroft out of your  
sex life.  
SH_

I’m sure he feels  
the same way.

_Seeing him again?  
SH_

Your brother?

_The airline pilot.  
Don’t play stupid.  
It doesn’t suit you.  
SH_

Thank you, I think.  
Why do you want  
to know? Jealous?

_Of course not. I  
just want to know  
if I need to do a  
background check  
on him or not.  
SH_

That’s sweet, and  
offensive, at the  
same time - not  
to mention  
unnecessary. I  
have better  
sources than you.

_Is that a challenge?  
SH_

Sure, if you’re bored.

_Actually, not today.  
SH_

Really? Shocking.

_I have hobbies.  
SH_

How’s the exploding  
umbrella coming along?

_Still in very early  
development.  
SH_

You’ve been working  
on it for more than  
five years.

_It’s a very  
complicated  
procedure.  
SH_

That’s what he said.

_What?  
SH_

Nothing. I’ve  
wanted to say  
that for ages,  
but you never  
give me an opening.

_I’m not sure I follow.  
SH_

Of course you  
don't. Ask John to  
explain it to you.

_Sex-related?  
SH_

A bit.

_Then I’m not  
going to ask him.  
SH_

Prude.

_I’ve been called  
much worse.  
SH_

Not by me.

_You called me  
Mycroft once.  
SH_

Did I? Well, I’m  
sure it was called for.

_Have fun on  
the train.  
SH_

Don’t sulk.

Sherlock Holmes,  
are you twelve?

God, I miss the  
pilot. He was a bit  
clumsy, but at  
least he behaved  
like an adult.

He really knew  
how to work  
that thumb I  
showed you.

_Please, no details!  
SH_

Just wanted to see  
how long you  
could resist replying.

_Who’s twelve now?  
SH_

Still just you.

_Have a nice trip.  
SH_

Almost in Paris, I  
think I’ll survive.

 _Tell Mycroft hello  
from me.  
SH_

Really?

_No.  
SH_

* * *

“O Captain, my Captain,” Douglas singsonged, as Martin entered GERTI sometime around noon. “You look like you’ve missed a good night’s sleep and couldn’t be happier about it.” 

“Oh, shut up, Douglas,” Martin muttered, feeling his ears grow pink. He helped himself to a cup of coffee, “Where are Carolyn and Arthur?”

“One is buying tax-free candy, and the other one is trying to huff and puff away the ash cloud so we can get home. Care to guess who’s doing what?”

Martin ignored the question and made a face as he swallowed the coffee. “This is worse than usual.”

“Take up your complaints with our loyal barista when he returns with his arms full of sweets.” Douglas handed him a tiny package of sugar. “It’s more drinkable if you have sugar with coffee instead of coffee with sugar.”

“So, you all slept on GERTI, then?” Martin looked at the coffee, trying to decide if it was worth drinking for the caffeine. 

“Yes, Carolyn wasn’t all that keen of using _her_ money to check us in at a hotel indefinitely.” 

“Mm…. I was present at that discussion,” Martin remembered absently, deciding to drink the coffee after pouring in two sachets of sugar.

“Is this where I’m supposed to ask where you didn’t get any sleep? I can do that.” Douglas looked smug. “Where _were_ you last night? Mummy and Daddy were so worried. Well, at least Arthur was.”

“How sweet of Arthur,” Martin mumbled, following Douglas back to the cabin where most of MJN Air had obviously spent the night.

“Yes, he’s rather endearing sometimes.” Douglas moved two blankets off a seat and sat down with a frown. “His extensive questioning about your whereabouts made me think I was going to have to tell him about the birds and the bees.”

Martin remained on his feet and endured Douglas’s expectant look. 

“Stop that!” he said after a few minutes. “I’m not going to tell you just because you’re staring at me.”

“Oh, come on! You’re _dying_ to tell me.”

“It’s…none of your business.” Martin pretended not to notice how the pink on his ears had started to spread over his cheeks.

“It isn’t,” Douglas agreed and nodding, “and I can’t imagine your sexual conquests to be the basis of a very interesting story, but I’d be damned if I cared about that. We’re grounded until Iceland decides to pause Ragnarök, so now, please, entertain me. Where did you avoid sleep last night, Captain?”

“Steigenberger, if you have to know.” 

“Steigenberger? On your non-existent salary?” Douglas gaped. “Now you have to tell me who she was. Or he. I’m not here to judge.”

“It was a she,” Martin snorted. “And I’m not saying anything else.”

“Yes you are.” Douglas rolled his eyes. “You’ll tell me everything eventually, so why don’t you stop being a prude and give me all the juicy details right now?”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No.” Martin sat down at the other side of the aisle. “Stop asking me.”

“Don’t be dull, Martin,” Douglas told him. When it became clear that Martin wasn’t going to say anything more, the first officer continued, sighing: “Then I’ll just have to speculate. The young Captain Crieff left his loyal crew and plane last night because he thought someone was making fun of his hat.”

“You _were_ making fun of my hat,” Martin interjected, glaring at him. “And my safety protocols.”

“Not much more than usual. Honestly, Martin, being stuck here is almost as entertaining as getting a tooth pulled. Having to listen to you go through protocol makes it a root canal without anaesthesia.”

Martin snorted.

“Shall I go on?” Douglas smirked. Martin rolled his eyes and looked down at his coffee, unwilling to admit he actually wanted to hear what Douglas would make up. 

“Well then, our brave Captain went to one of the watering holes offered by this fine establishment, thinking that, since the end of the world as we know it was eminent, he wouldn’t be flying tonight anyway, so he could unwind with some alcohol.”

Martin realised that he was nodding along in confirmation. He hoped that Douglas hadn’t noticed, but the smug look on his first officer’s face told him otherwise.

“Through the thick cigar smoke that filled the room-“

“Where do you think I went yesterday? A speakeasy in 1920s Chicago?”

“If you want to tell the story, please, go ahead,” Douglas offered. Martin shook his head. “Well then, as I said, through the thick cigar smoke – only out-thickened by the ash cloud keeping us here – our brave, young Captain caught the eye of the Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Andorra.”

“Don’t be absurd! I don’t even think Andorra has a princess,” Martin snorted. “She’s a British government employee.”

“A government employee, you say? Hot!”

“Yes, she was. Very. Now shut up.”

“Oh, never, Martin. How could someone working for _our_ government afford a quick rendezvous at Steigenberger?”

Martin looked at him, finishing the terrible coffee to stall for time. He had actually wondered the same thing last night, though not for very long, as her tongue in his ear had almost rendered him unable to think at all. 

“Actually,” he said slowly, recalling the strange details of last night, “now that I think about it, I think she might have been a secret agent.”

“And that would make you what, Plenty O’Toole?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, well, maybe not ‘plenty’ but you brought at least one ‘tool’, right?” Douglas raised his eyebrows.

“What? God! Douglas!” 

“Don’t tell me you’re Pussy Galore, Martin.”

“Of course not!” Martin snorted. Still, as he leaned back and absently tapped the armrest, he thought that for the woman last night, he would have gladly been whichever Bond girl she’d wanted. He smiled, shaking his head, happy that Douglas couldn’t read minds.

 _“What?”_

“Nothing,” Martin shook his head again, still smiling. “Do you think Carolyn’s having any luck with the huffing and the puffing?”

“No, but not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”

“We could always suggest a repetition of Douz.”

“Autobahn, at this hour?” Douglas shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“And it might be a bit difficult to get GERTI to swim across the English Channel.”

“True. But let’s not mention this to Carolyn. She might just be desperate enough to try.”

Martin chuckled. “Well, if we’re going to be stuck here another day, then let’s go and get some proper coffee. Or are you on plane-guarding duty?”

“You mean, am I making sure no one steals GERTI and flies her away through an ash cloud that not even real aeroplanes dare face? No. I mostly just stayed around to wait for you to come back.”

“So, coffee?” Martin didn’t really know what to make of the fact that Douglas had been waiting around for him.

“Oh, why not? Maybe even a bagel.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Martin got to his feet.

“After you, Captain.” 

As they left the plane, Douglas put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Happy as I am about your little adventure last night –believe me, I encourage more of it – next time, take a moment to tell us that you’re not kidnapped or dead in a closet somewhere.”

Martin smiled, embarrassed and a little guilty. “Sorry, I didn’t think….”

“Oh no, don’t be sorry,” Douglas protested, shaking his head to emphasise his point. “Just a mental Post-it for next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Martin mumbled.

“I never even thought there was going to be a first time! But look at you.” Douglas nudged him in the shoulder with a smirk. Still embarrassed and blushing again, Martin shoved him back, smiling. Even though Martin knew he was probably going to have to spend more than one night on GERTI, he realised that he was going to remember this as a pleasant experience.


End file.
